


Call to War

by kilgamesh



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Feels, Gen, Gore, Major Violence, Reader-Insert, Tenth class, dealing with grief, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilgamesh/pseuds/kilgamesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all your years, you never imagined allowing yourself to sign up for this type of work. A slow-burn, Medic/Reader-insert for your pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mule

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to start this by saying that PurpleCompromise was my inspiration to throw my own Medic/Reader-insert out there for you all to read, and she's been such a tremendous help!

Each second closer to the imposing compound of Teufort nearly brings you into a nervous breakdown. Last minute dread clashes with a begrudging sort of optimism you didn’t know you were capable of, and your heart becomes a hummingbird, fluttering against your ribs in a panicked staccato.

You distract yourself with the scenery passing by in muted blurs of red and brown and the occasional flash of dying green. Powdery dust floats everywhere – sticking to your clothes and skin, flying behind the car in great plumes. This place is a fucking wasteland.

And you hate it just a little bit.

Next to you, at the wheel, is Miss Pauling, a woman you had only barely met, but her smile, if not slightly strained with fading pity, is easy, and you allow yourself to relax into the scorched leather of your seat.

You aren’t sure how you feel about the painful silence until Miss Pauling breaks it.

“How are you feeling?” her voice is jovial, kind. You wonder how it could be.

There’s an answer on your lips, you know there is. Thankfully, the woman sitting in the driver’s seat is patient, and out of the corner of your eye, that easy smile is back, and the pity has left and in its place is gentle amusement, you note with an odd mixture of relief and bemusement.

“I’m nervous,” you blurt out. _Way to go_.

Miss Pauling’s chuckle is just as kind as her voice. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” she assures you. “After all,” she adds after a moment, “ _you_ are the one we chose to take on in the first place.”

Her words are only slightly calming, and a small grin tugs at your lips as a huff of a laugh spreads out into the stuffy air.

You close your eyes and think back to several weeks ago, reading the contract – being more-than-slightly horrified at what it entailed, giving in and signing it, and effectively sealing your fate for the next few years if all went as well as it could go. At first, you had convinced yourself that you were in it for the slaughter, to do some killing because _fuck_ , the world wasn’t fair – Christ, it had taken your father from you, hadn’t it? It wasn’t until you sat down after a fit of sobbing rage – rage at being pushed to even _consider_ such a nightmarish life, that you had realized that the pay was substantial. It’d keep your mother from teetering over the edge of bankruptcy you’ve seen her on for the past several years. It’d give you something to _do_.

Your father wouldn’t be proud but damn it, you’re angry that he’s not here with you.

Unwanted tears line your eyes as memories of his smile – never the same after the war, your mother always told you – but it was the smile you grew up seeing, hesitant and soft, but never quite reaching his perennially tormented eyes.

Torture was a hell of a thing, you surmise.

 _Stop_. _He’s gone now_.

You violently blink away those offending tears and look up as Teufort’s compound breaks through the wavering horizon, a fortified giant. Its metal roofing gleams in the harsh sunlight.

Instantly, the din of your heart echoes in your ears faster, faster, and faster. You’re not ready, there’s no way you’re –

“You remember the rules, don’t you?” the question is so unexpected that, at first, you say nothing at all. All at once you realize that she’s keeping you from working yourself into another nerve-riddled panic. You’re grateful.

 _Speak, idiot_. “Yes, ma’am. I do,” your voice is hoarse.

Miss Pauling tells you them again anyway for good measure. “No personal questions, don’t tell anyone your name, and absolutely _no_ Company sabotage,” her voice turns hard on the last rule.

“I understand, ma’am,” you say with a firm nod, voice stronger.

Your words seem to ease Miss Pauling back into that state of poised calm. Elegant hands lessen their sudden white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

You sigh tiredly, settle back into the leather, pick at a loose thread in your shirt. And today is only going to get stranger, you remember with a dull crack of disappointment.

The compound is just ahead now, and all at once you wish you were back home, struggling with your mother just to make ends meet. Shouldering two jobs on top of preventing your mother from reaching for that damn liquor cabinet.

Now you just have one. It’s all you’ll ever need. Things are going to get better.

You’re not sure if this is as reassuring as it’s supposed to be.

Miss Pauling stops the car just outside of Teufort’s compound and looks at your pale face. You’re thankful when she decides to not tell you how you’re going to do great again.

“We’ll have to walk from here. Don’t forget your things,” she reminds you as she straightens her crisp purple blouse, not a hair out of place.

You wonder how she can stay so prim in this hellish mess of a job.

With no small amount of embarrassment, you brush red dust from your pants and wipe it from your face. You open the back seat’s door and pull your knapsack from it along with a lengthy canvas case.

You cradle the case in your arms tenderly, as if it contains a precious treasure – which to you, it very much does. One of the only things your father had left to give you before his passing. You hug it closer to your chest, and you feel a little safer.

After you sling the knapsack and case over your shoulders, you follow Miss Pauling through the tall barb-wired fence and into a large courtyard. Across the way is a building, plain and unassuming save for a large sign, the word RED garishly painted in… well, red paint.

Miss Pauling leads you towards a set of beaten double-doors. Your heart flutters against your chest again, but you steel yourself just enough to not look like a complete idiot.

With one last kind glance in your direction, she opens the doors and motions for you to enter. You’re proud when you don’t hesitate to walk ahead.

You didn’t expect to be greeted by an empty, half-assed mess hall. The breath you didn’t realize you had been holding rushes from your lungs. You turn to Miss Pauling, waiting for her to explain.

“Oh, the boys’ll be here in a minute. I swear they do this stuff just to spite me,” despite her words, her voice is laced with dubious affection. She fixes you with a stare; green eyes glint knowingly behind glasses. “I’m sure they’ll take to you.”

“My job sort of depends on it,” you say.

“Among other things, Mule.”

It’s an odd feeling, hearing your title – and new name, unfortunately – spoken aloud. But you’ve made your bed, and now you have to sleep in it, shitty mattress and all.

Miss Pauling leans against one of the counters, legs crossed amicably – a strange juxtaposition of her outwardly professional nature. “Once the introductions are over, you’ll get settled in, and then you’ll be calibrated into the Respawn system. You know that the rest of your things are already in your bunk. Oh, and work starts at seven-hundred.”

It’s a lot to take in, really.

“Yeah,” you mutter. You can’t blame yourself; you’re not great with words.

Respawn interests you though, and you’re tempted to ask Miss Pauling more on the subject. You bite your tongue before you let yourself speak. You figure that the little information you _do_ possess of the death-cheating system will be expanded on when the time calls for it.

You study the mess hall, and across the room is another equally beaten door, and Miss Pauling seems to be staring at it, frowning. It doesn’t sit well on her pretty face.

“I’m sorry you have to wait on them,” she says out of the blue.

You shrug, “it’s fine.”

“Either way, they should know better.”

“Eh,” another shrug.

And you’re honestly fine with the other nine mercenaries taking so long. It could stay like that for the rest of the evening.

Miss Pauling decides to say nothing after this and for a moment you feel like you should apologize.

 _Good going_. Technically day one and you’re already looking _and_ sounding like an asshole. You force a smile onto your face, hoping that Miss Pauling would see past your shitty social skills.

Then again, shitty social skills are one of the reasons you were chosen for this fucking job in the first place. It still doesn’t make you feel any better about it.

You scuff the floor with your boots, tracing aged scratches and divots, and your hands tighten on the canvas straps of the case resting at your back.

You nearly jump when the sound of loud footsteps and rowdy laughter and shouting comes echoing from just outside of that foreboding door. And beside you Miss Pauling straightens, back into that mode of stoic professionalism you admire. “Show time,” is all she says before the door is flung wide open.


	2. Firsts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long overdue, and for that, I'm sorry. School, work, general laziness... the usual. But this chapter would have never been possible if it weren't for my good friend and amazing beta, PurpleCompromise! Go check her out if you haven't yet (she's fucking incredible, yo). Now, enjoy the chapter!

You brace yourself with bated breath, nerves flaring to life as the laughter from the hallway hushes, fading to whispers.

From that damn door come nine men, each of them deadly representatives of either indifference or confidence or maybe an odd chimera of both. Suddenly you feel very small when their scrutinizing gazes immediately fall on you. You hate it.

They’re _disappointed_. Of course they are.

You do your best to meet their eyes, to make yourself seem like you know what you’re really doing here. _Deep breaths, deep breaths_ . You can’t help but be intimidated by them. They range from unassuming to downright _massive_. A giant of a man stands toward the back, but his eyes do not hold the same caliber of judgement. They’re almost gentle. It only makes you feel a little better. You shake yourself back into attention.  

“Gentlemen,” Miss Pauling greets. She sweeps her arm out, gesturing towards your awkward form. “Meet the new addition to RED. This is the Mule.”

_Way to put me on the fucking spot, ma’am._

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say shakily.

_Idiot._

Miss Pauling, mercifully aware of your distress, has the courtesy to take over. “Her trial, as you know, lasts for one week. If her performance on the field proves to be above par, she stays. The field trial, however, is not the only determining factor here.” She pins the nine mercenaries with a hard stare. “She needs to be able to integrate into the team seamlessly. This is on you men, as well. Don’t make us regret this.”

How does she _do_ that? Command so much attention from such volatile men. You figure you’ll never get to find out, but that’s not what bothers you.

One of the mercenaries – no more than a boy, you note with surprise, throws a lazy shoulder in your direction, but his attention is still cast on the woman standing next to you. There’s… _something else_ in that stare - you can’t quite place it, but you can see it. _Interesting_.

“What’s she supposed t’do?”

 _Bostonian_ , you conclude. _Also a bit of an ass._ The vague files you were allowed to read warned you about this. _Must be Scout_.

Miss Pauling says nothing, but looks to you, eyes expectant and kind once again.

Out of nerves, you fidget in place. “My job is to carry supplies. Get them out to you when you need them, provide cover fire when you don’t,” you say lamely, the end of your sentence runs your voice thin.

When the Scout’s eyes finally shift to you, his stare is doubtful. To your relief, he grins after a moment, shrugging good-naturedly, and the sudden change in demeanor gives you whiplash, but you don’t dwell on it. Another man, shorter in stature - the shortest out of all of them - offers a hand with a nod in your direction. The motion causes his hardhat to slide further down his broad forehead.

“I'm the Engineer 'round here. Reckon we’ll be seein’ a lot from you on the field tomarr’a,” he says with a kind smile. His drawl is thick and confesses where he’s from. But it’s comforting.

 _This is better. This is a little bit easier_. You can’t help but return his infectious grin as you shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You crush the urge to ask him his actual name out of habit. You offer another grin instead, and you hope it looks genuine.

With one final nod, satisfied smile on his face, the Engineer steps back and fades into the group. Miss Pauling shifts beside you, stance becoming easy, looser - and on her face is a gentle grin. You feel a bit more comfortable now - informality is familiar territory. Another deep breath.

Your painful grip on the canvas straps lessens, but your fingers remain curled against the coarse fabric. It’s one of the only constants in your life at this point - the other being several hundred miles northwest, and you’re going to hold onto it for as long as you can.

The next mercenary to approach you is… unsettling to look at. The gas mask they wear hides all emotion, but they’re definitely curious, you can tell that at least. Flame-retardant suit - the sound of the material as they walk grates against your ears. You wonder how they can stand to wear such a uniform. They don’t take off their mask, but they lean forward a bit, excitement radiates from them in tangible waves and they can barely keep still.

“Mmmph mmrk mmph!”

 _This is fucking ridiculous_.

You lean closer, angling your ear towards them - as if that would help. “Sorry? I, uh… I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

From the back of the group comes Engineer’s comforting twang. “That’d be Pyro, darlin’. Don’t worry about the speech; you’ll get used to it,” there’s a smile in his voice.

You’re relieved, to be honest. And instead of dismissing the Pyro, you - hesitantly - offer your hand to them.

You’re more confused than offended when they don’t shake it. But when they suddenly grip your hand, you jump, reflexively attempting to pull it free.

The hold is strange, gentle, but a bit firm, as if they’re unsure of their force - like a _child_ , you realize, and this does absolutely nothing to ease you. And all at once, you can see the emotion in that gas mask. Excitement, curiosity, and something you can’t quite place. It’s interesting, really. How can someone _do_ that? You leave your strange admiration for some other time.

With their other hand, the Pyro eagerly presses something small and hard into your palm. Cool metal against blazing skin.

The Pyro retreats a few steps, and you look at the object nestled in the cradle of your hand.

It’s a Zippo lighter, old and well used, by the looks of it. The edges are dented and charred. Its lid is loose, easily coming free from the clasp, and it hangs on the hinges.

_This is a day full of firsts, isn’t it?_

You’re not sure what to say, exactly, but you’re… grateful?

 “Thank you,” you say. And you mean it. You have no idea what you’ll do with a lighter; you don’t smoke - but the gift is nice.

It makes you feel more welcome, and you can only hope that the rest of the mercenaries will be as welcoming as Engineer and Pyro. Scout is still up in the air.

The Pyro claps their hands together, bouncing on the balls of their feet. “Hudda mmrk mmmph!”

You take Engineer’s advice and try not to worry about what they might be saying, so you just smile and nod, pocketing your Zippo.

The Pyro scuttles back towards Engineer, who seems to be looking upon all this hullabaloo with a fond smile - and for another moment, the stress melts away. You feel like you may actually be able to develop bonds with a few of these men, and this realization is a weight lifted from your shoulders.

You were so caught up in your own cushy world that you hadn’t noticed the giant come to stand before you. He’s a fortress, a pillar of strength, and he could snap you like a toothpick. You crane your neck to meet his eyes, and to your surprise, they’re still gentle.

He extends his hand, and it swallows yours, his calluses scrape against your own. “I am Heavy,” he says, voice thick and low, but not unkind.

 _Russian_.

You smile and, in a surge of confidence, extend your hand once again.

The Heavy’s hand swallows yours, and it seems like he’s shaking your entire forearm. Next to him, you are just a ragdoll, flimsy and easy to break.

And you respect that.

“Nice to meet you,” you say with a grin, but it is not easy; the intimidation is still there, festering in your poor, overworked nerves. All those other applicants - not one of them came _close_ to the size of this man.

Heavy nods once, “ _Da_. Is good to meet you as well. Eager to see how tiny woman does in battle.” His words are gentle even if his face is impassive.

You’re not exactly sure what to say next, but you nod and you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as the large man lumbers off, satisfied with the exchange.

A dark skinned man swaggers toward you, steps… unsteady, but purposeful, and you can immediately smell the alcohol. You remember that it hasn’t passed ten in the morning. “Aye, lass. S’good tae meet ye,” his Scottish brogue is heavy and lilting. And… very slurred. He extends a hand to you, and you take it in turn, shaking gently.

“Same to you,” you say. After a moment, you smile. “You must be the Demoman.”

“Tha’ would be me, aye,” his kind acknowledgement is punctuated with a hearty guffaw, skin crinkling around his eyes… _eye_.

You say the next thing that comes to mind. “I look forward to working with you.”

The Demoman laughs again, softer this time. “M’ happy tae say the same, lass.”

And then he’s lumbering back into the group, but not before nodding happily, approval showing in his smile. You’re surprised to find that this makes you feel a bit better about all this. Less frightened, perhaps. Or, maybe just… confident. You share his smile after a moment, another weight lifted from your shoulders.

The next man to approach you is tall and gangly, all limbs, but there is a small pouch of fat on his gut. He dwarfs you, but the look on his face is curious. He does not offer his hand, but he does bring it up, gives you a tiny wave. You return the gesture with a nervous grin.

“‘Ello.”

“Hi,” your voice seems unsure. You don’t know what else to expect.

You catch a glimpse of the patch on his shirtsleeve, and the target tells you all you need to know. “Sniper, right?”

The man shrugs. “Yeah."

 A closer inspection of the Sniper brings you more information, and you file it away. His stance - guarded, tensed, and the eyes behind his glasses dart. Odd, considering the space he’s in. You choose to not think on it too much. Seeing him so uncomfortable is enough to let you know he isn’t a fan of close quarters.

Still, you feel as if you can’t part on just hellos. “Be seeing you on the field, then.”

The Sniper brings his hand up again, chews on the skin surrounding his thumb, nods, and turns away. You cock your head at his silent and abrupt retreat, and you understand. Really, you do.

In your musings, you hadn’t noticed a helmeted man march toward you, stopping only when the rim of his helmet pressed against yours, and you flinch backwards, nose scrunched in distaste at the sudden intrusion of your personal space.

There’s a glaring silence, and the man’s lips are curled into some twisted snarl, baring crooked teeth. Then…

 _“MAGGOT_.”

You flinch again, spit landing on your chin, and you immediately wipe it away with the back of your hand. Frowning, you go to open your mouth - to say _something_ , but the man beats you to it.

“DO YOU NOT SALUTE TO YOUR SUPERIORS?” He yells the question to you at breakneck speed.

You can’t help but applaud your own capacity to humor, and you snap into attention, arm crisply brought up to salute. You loathe it.

“THAT’S BETTER, MAGGOT. I EXPECT TO SEE YOU UP AND REPORTING FOR DUTY BEFORE THE SUN IS IN THE SKY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Your lips twitch, curving into a cradle of discomfort, but you nod. “Uh, yes, sir. Roger.”

The man - or, the Soldier, judging from his disposition alone, steps back, but only by a few inches before giving the back of your helmet a harsh tap. “VERY GOOD.”

And then he’s gone, marching back into the group with stiff shoulders, chest puffed out. Despite the yelling - the wannabe staff sergeant routine, you can tell the man was never _really_ a soldier. His eyes… even in the brief moment you _did_ see them, they did not hold any lingering presence of actual war. All you saw were blood vessels and puffy lids. And no small amount of lunacy.

The new figure sauntering near you rolls his eyes at the passing Soldier, unlit cigarette perched between his thin lips.

 _The Spy, no doubt_. You can smell the smoke from where you stand.

And out of all the men you’ve met thus far, the Spy is perhaps… the most obvious, oddly enough. Well dressed in a sharp suit.

 _That can’t be practical_ , you think to yourself.

He comes to a halt, takes the cigarette from his lips, grips it loosely between his middle and index fingers. His hips slant forwards, a trim statue of poised judgement as he stares down his nose at you.

“Do you have a light?”

Honestly, it’s the last question you expected to hear today, but you nod. You keep your eyes on him as you reach into your pocket, pulling the Zippo you had received. With a quick snap of your wrist, the lid easily flies open, and a tiny flame illuminates the skin of your hand. You bring it up level with the Spy’s cigarette - which had been stuffed between his thin lips once more, and he leans forward to light the end of it.

You blink when he takes the kind liberty of blowing smoke in your face, but you make no other move.

“Thanks,” you cough, closing the lid.

The Spy’s smile is coy. “See you on ze field, _mademoiselle_.”

You aren’t surprised to hear those words spoken as a mockery - you’re no stranger to it. You’ll have to prove the Frenchman wrong.

He saunters away, the smoke curling in the air around him catches the fluorescent lights, and you cough again. You don’t miss his smug grin as he turns his back to you, and you grit your teeth and smile through it.

 _Smarmy bastard_ , you growl into your own head, fingers twitching into fists. You let your attention return to the group as a whole. Eager to get this whole fiasco over with so you can unpack and prepare for the horrendous surgery with your name on it in big, bold letters.

The last mercenary to step forward is dressed in a foreboding lab coat, and out of the process of elimination, you know it’s the Medic. He isn’t smiling, but he isn’t frowning either. His face is… curious? Impassive? Apathetic? The last one is worrisome to think about. A man of medicine shouldn’t look at someone like that. But then again, he’s a goddamn mercenary, so it doesn’t really matter anyway.

 _Fuck the Hippocratic Oath, I guess_ , you think to yourself.

The Medic is a tall man with broad shoulders. His glasses, small and round, seem to nearly glint in the shitty artificial light of the mess hall, and his eyes hold that… disturbing curiosity, but you try to pay it little mind.

_Last one._

He comes to a stop two feet from you, hands clasped behind his back, and he bounces once on the balls of his booted feet. The eyes behind those glasses appraise you, size you up. It makes you uncomfortable.

His lips twitch, whether or not it’s just a skeleton of a smirk, you’re not sure. He shifts, extends a hand toward you, and you shake it.

“ _Hallo._ ”

It’s as if the air leaves you, but you did not breathe it. Your chest feels tight, and your hand twitches around his. You immediately drop it. That accent…

You think back several years - to your dad’s stories about men like the one standing before you. His oxygen tank, so _loud_ \- and the frightening tubes feeding it to him, and yet his breathing was _still_ forced and wheezing. As a child, perhaps it was then you didn’t… _couldn’t_ understand. But you do now. The reason you’re standing here. Unbidden, you swallow the bile in your throat.

Because _you_ need this fucking job, and you’ll stomach working with a German if you must. But you won’t like it. Not one bit.

In the back of your mind you wonder if the others notice your moment of abject horror - however internally you may have kept it. They don’t need to know, _they don’t need to know_. You chance a quick glance at the group and in the corner of your eye you see Miss Pauling’s eyes narrow.

Oh.

_She knows._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter! I'll keep the updates as swift as I can.


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